


Whiffle

by sheafrotherdon



Series: A Farm in Iowa 'Verse [37]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-21
Updated: 2007-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Eve in Iowa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiffle

They make it upstairs without any incident, John's hand steady on Rodney's back, Rodney yawning and barely managing to lift his feet high enough to climb each tread. Rodney's so sleepy that he can't really work out the mechanisms of his sweater once they make it to their bedroom, gets stuck inside it and makes confused, helpless noises until John helps him pull it off. He emerges disheveled, hair stuck on end, and blinks in the dim light of their bedside lamps, grinning at John as he says, "Hi." John can't help but grin back, kisses his ridiculous mouth, and ushers him to the bathroom so that he can brush his teeth.

John's pulled back the covers by the time Rodney returns, boxer shorts hitched higher on one hip than the other, shuffling across the bare floorboards, eyes mostly shut. He flops face down onto their mattress and rubs his toes happily against the sheets. "Mmmm mmm mmmmmph," he mumbles and John reckons he'll be out in about five seconds, so he's surprised to find him still awake when he comes out of the bathroom, dousing the light.

"Go to sleep," John counsels, turning off the lamp on Rodney's side of the bed before padding around to his own. He lies down, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"I was waitin' f'you," Rodney says.

"Hmmm?" John offers. "Here now."

"Heeeere now," Rodney repeats, and flops unceremoniously over John's body, hooking a leg and an arm around him, wriggling until he's comfortable, then peering at John from one eye. "S'chilly," he observes, and John snorts a breath of laughter, sits up and pulls the comforter from the bottom of the bed, arranges it around them both then settles back, Rodney scooching in again. "You are ver' warm," Rodney yawns, rubbing his nose against John's shoulder. "I like that about you."

"Good to know," John whispers.

"Also your elbows," Rodney hums.

"I like your, uh, elbows too?"

"Yes, yes, ver' important, elbows and presents."

John claps a hand over his eyes, laughing quietly. "Go to _sleep_ , Rodney."

"Sleeeeeeeeeps," Rodney mutters, and he's out a moment later, going lax and heavy along John's side.

"Happy Christmas, weird bastard," John whispers into his hair, and lies awake for a while longer, listening to the creaking of his weathered farmhouse, the silence of his family gathered in, the whiffle of Rodney's breath across his chest. He shifts his hips, hushes Rodney's mumble of protest, and closes his eyes, luck and grace a steady pressure around his heart as he slips from Eve toward Christmas Day.


End file.
